Reparations
by ringaroundtherollins
Summary: After losing the World Heavyweight Championship to Sheamus, Roman Reigns gets a voicemail from the last person he ever expected to hear from. One-shot written out of sheer exasperation after tonight's bullshit PPV.


" _Boooooooooo_."

He'd heard it all night. The boos. The jeers. The jibes. Had they even used his name in a New Day parody? Instead of "New Day sucks", it was "Roman sucks."

He'd heard it all before.

All night. All month.

All year.

Now, here they were again.

" _Boooooooo_!"

But maybe they weren't booing him.

Maybe—just maybe—they were booing what just happened.

It's all he was asking himself. The only words running through his head.

 _What just happened_?

Victory. The sweet taste. Confetti. Explosions. Fireworks. Even Ambrose rolling over and congratulating him. Ambrose didn't hate him. It had been a hell of a match, and they hadn't given each other mercy. But Ambrose was still his brother.

Some things never changed.

" _Booooooooo_!"

Roman Reigns rolled off the mat. He was fatigued. Not one part of his body didn't ache after those two matches. Well, match and a half. Sheamus hadn't exactly been a match—just an advantage of a moment of weakness. A cheap shot or two. An unfair conquest.

Sheamus cashed in.

He hadn't even been expecting it.

Sheamus cashed in, pinned him, and stole the title from him.

 _He stole it_.

Triple H shook his new apprentice's hand and made off with the Celtic Warrior. The new world heavyweight champion.

Roman limped towards the locker room. The boos pealed behind him like the Undertaker's toll.

 _It was my championship. And he stole it_.

Roman's eyes stung. His flesh burned. His heart bled. His muscles screamed for ibuprofen and rest. He half-expected Sheamus to be standing there, mocking him, taunting him, waving that belt in his face. The heavy, glistening, prized, sacred, _precious_ World Heavyweight Championship. Seth's former title.

And now, Roman's.

Roman's _former_ title.

Roman was somehow a _former_ champion now.

"Hey, Roman—"

Whoever it was, Roman didn't want to hear it. He threw up a hand behind him, strongly suggesting for the caller of his name to leave him the hell alone.

He'd had it.

Had it with this whole fucking company.

 _I work so hard. I broke for that title. And Sheamus goes and does something like that_ …

 _I deserved it._

Hell, even Ambrose deserved it.

If Dean had beaten him, Roman wouldn't have been upset. Maybe a little jealous. Maybe a bit resentful. But Dean was his family. His brother. His best friend.

He'd never betray Dean.

Not after what happened.

No matter what.

Roman shoved into the locker room. He was alone.

He screamed aloud. Louder than he had before any Superman punch, any Spear. He thrust one of those famous Superman punches into a locker.

Didn't help the pain. Increased it.

Didn't help him feel better, either.

He screamed again. Screams twisted into cries. Angry, bitter, acidic cries. He punched the locker again, and again, leaving a dent in the metal and a sharp pain in his knuckles.

He didn't care.

What was the use?

What did it matter?

What did _anything_ fucking _matter_?

No matter what he did, he always lost.

Even when he won. He still lost.

Roman dropped onto a bench. He hung his head. Blood mixed with sweat, mixed with tears in a disgusting cocktail, dripped like a faucet from his hair, his face.

 _I am worthy._

 _But if that was true, why does this keep happening_?

A knock on the door. Dean poked his head into the locker room.

"Roman…"

"Dean, not now."

Dean was persistent. He shoved his bruised figure into the locker room. "Roman, I'm sorry—"

"I said not now!" Roman roared, flying off the bench, shaking fists clenched at his side like he was ready to swing again. He'd hit Ambrose plenty tonight. Clearly he was capable.

Unwilling. But capable.

Dean's face blanched. He went stiff in place. "Okay. Okay. I understand. You need time to—"

"Dean, I'm sorry, but I need to be alone. Please."

"Okay." Dean surrendered. He backed out of the locker room.

Roman shoved his hair from his face, over his broad shoulders. Everything hurt on the outside; everything was numb on the inside.

He took a long, long shower. The hot water pacified his aggravated muscles, washed him clean of the blood, served as its own painkiller. Still managed to be as useless as anything else.

Roman dried off. Didn't dress himself right away. Sat in a big white towel on the bench, staring at his twisted, mangled self in the steamy mirror.

Sat. Pondered. Blamed himself. Blamed the company. _Hated_ himself. _Hated_ the company. Hated Sheamus most of all. Oh, how he loathed Sheamus…

Roman wanted to avoid social media. It was no different than the live crowd that presented itself at live events each night. Roman had haters. Had anti-fans. Had plenty of fans and supporters, sure, and he was thankful for each and every one of them, even if he didn't know their name or that they existed. They were there.

But so were the haters.

The boos were real.

But he needed to make some calls. His daughter probably wanted to hear from him. Her voice might actually make a difference.

He pushed off the bench, opened up his locker, and dug his phone out of the mess inside.

Roman saw he had a missed call.

He didn't recognize the number.

It _looked_ familiar, but he had no contact information connected to the digits.

The number had left a voicemail.

Roman moved his hair aside and pressed the phone to his ear.

" _You have one new message_."

"Roman."

His throat closed up. The pain returned with a vengeance. He nearly flung his phone across the steamy locker room at that voice.

"I know I'm probably the last person you want to hear from, but please listen. Hear me out. Please."

Roman drew a frustrated breath in through his nose. He shifted his weight to his other hip as he listened to what Seth Rollins possibly had to say.

"I watched the match tonight. All of it. Not gonna lie, it was really weird seeing you and Dean going at it like that. I mean, you and Dean used to go at it all the time, remember? When we were the Shield? You guys butted heads, and I was always the one having to play parent and pull you apart and keep you from killing each other. So tonight, watching the two of you beat the hell out of each other over that title…it was…weird. Different. Honestly? I didn't like it."

Roman felt weak again. He reclaimed his seat on the bench.

"Maybe I should be telling you this in person. Hell, even over a phone call when you can talk back. But you deserve to hear this, Roman. I'm damn proud of you. You fought like a _hard-ass_ for that title. I was smiling a little bit when you won."

Now Roman was the one smiling "a little bit."

"They went all out for you, didn't they?" Roman could visualize him on a bed somewhere, leg in a brace, crutches off to the side, Seth dressed in pajamas in front of the television on which he'd been watching the pay-per-view. "I mean, confetti, the loudness of it all…the ringing in your ear. I know the feeling. It's amazing. I knew exactly how you felt, and I could almost feel it again for myself, just watching you go through it."

Roman couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"But then…when Sheamus came running in…sorry, I won't talk much about that, because I know you don't want to think on it again…Roman, I saw the pain. I saw the bliss just _disappear_. Tears of joy became tears of hate. You were hurt. Really, truly hurt. And I—" Seth paused. Roman heard him sniff. A slight quiver in his voice. "I remembered something then that I didn't know now. I've done that to you before, Roman. I gave you that kind of pain, when _I_ cashed in."

A fresh agony rattled him at _that_ memory.

"I was so focused on that high. You know the high I'm talking about. The one you felt after you won. I was so focused on that high, that I couldn't see the pain you were suffering, even when it was right in front of me. But seeing it tonight, just moments ago…the pain I saw on your face…it was real. So real that _I_ could feel it. I know I did that to you, once. And I'm sorry."

Roman's mouth was dry. Was Seth Rollins _apologizing_?

"I don't know if you'll believe me. I don't even know if you made it this far in the message. But I know now, Roman. I know now what I didn't know then. What I didn't care about then. And seeing it play over, from a different perspective, as an outsider…Roman, I can't imagine what you must be feeling. I witnessed your pain, but it's just a shadow compared to what's going through your head right now."

Roman squeezed his eyes shut. Tears seeped through them. His head ached worse than a migraine.

"Maybe I'm wasting my time," Seth sighed, perhaps more to himself than Roman. "I'm sorry. I called to say I'm sorry, and maybe someday you'll buy it. I understand if you don't. I understand if you don't forgive me. You'll be without me for a little while longer, so at least you don't have to put up with me in person. So…that's all, I guess. Good night, Roman."

The voicemail ended.

Roman listened to it over again. Then again. He couldn't believe it. Seth…wow. Seth had shown signs of humanity. Empathy. _Compassion_. Seth Rollins, who broke the Shield apart singlehandedly, who stabbed him and Dean in the back, who gave the two hell for nearly a year…

Was sorry.

Maybe Roman was crazy. Delirious from the pain and shock of the evening.

But in that moment, he believed it.

Rollins wouldn't have a reason to call him up—and leave a heartfelt message like that—unless he meant it.

Roman called the number back.

After six or seven rings, a tired voice answered. "Mmmhullo?"

"Hey, Seth." He couldn't believe what he was doing. His throat ached. "It's Roman."

The voice roused. "Roman? Really?"

"Yeah. Hey."

"Wow. Can't believe you called me back." Seth chuckled. He sounded weary, miserable. Roman could develop his own compassion for his former brother right then. "You okay?"

"No. Not even a little bit."

"I'm sorry, Roman. I'm truly, really sorry. Not just for tonight, because that sucks. But for doing that to you once. I feel awful."

"Would you believe me if I said I forgive you?"

Brief silence. "I'd believe you as much as you believing me when I say I'm sorry."

"I guess I realize now I have more on my plate than something that happened…" Roman paused, counting the months in his head. "Eight months or so ago."

"I can't believe Sheamus stole my move. What a dick. Nobody can get away with that but me."

Roman chuckled softly. He didn't find it too funny. "You're the architect."

"And he's a damn copycat. You know this won't last, right, Roman? He'll get knocked off the pedestal in no time. Replaced by another champion."

"Question is, who?"

"I don't see anyone fitting that position except you."

Roman scoffed. "Right. I believe it."

"Hey, hey, what kind of attitude is that, Mr. Believe That? I know it hurts right now, but someday you can—"

"Seth, I'm just tired of it. That belt was _in my hands_ tonight, closer than it's ever been to me, and I _still_ walked out the loser."

"Roman, you're not one to quit. Ever. I've known this about you from the start. No matter what crap you go through in this business, you always find a way to press forward with that giant, thick head of yours. And that's a compliment, Roman. Your thick head gets you through as much crap as it gets you into. So stop saying you're tired of it. Stop saying you're a loser. Just because you lose doesn't make you a loser. You're a champion regardless of the outcome of the match tonight. And someday, this world is _going_ to know that."

"Think so?"

"Believe that, baby."

Roman smiled, truly smiled. It stretched from ear to ear. He didn't think that was a potential for him tonight. "Thanks, Seth."

"And hey. Like I said. Maybe you don't believe me. But someday it'll come true, then I get to brag about how right I was."

"Yeah. Thanks, buddy. I appreciate it."

"Go out with Ambrose. Get drunk. Get laid. Something. Get your mind off this night. Shake it off, kick the dust off your shoes, and move on. Move forward. Just like you always do. Just like you always will."

"A lot changes when the Authority gets the hell out of the way, huh?" Roman laughed. It was genuine this time.

"They're your problem now, unfortunately. I'm stuck here for a few more months. But at least you and Ambrose seem to be cool. Knock 'em out headstrong, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Roman, I still can't believe you called me back…"

"I still can't believe you called me in the first place."

"I can't believe you forgave me."

"I can't believe you apologized."

"Hey, let's cut it out with this disbelief crap, okay? Mr. Believe That? Say it. I want to hear it. You're a champion."

"I'll be a champion, believe—"

"No, no, you said it wrong. I _am_ a champion. Believe that."

"I _am_ a champion." Sounded real. Sounded believable. "Believe that."

"Good. Roman, I need to get some sleep, and after partying hard with Ambrose, you probably should too. Okay?"

"Okay. Sounds like a good idea."

"They don't call me the architect for nothing."

"It's really good to hear your voice…"

"Yeah. Not gonna lie. Good to hear yours, too."

"So…will I get to hear it again sometime soon?"

"Maybe. As long as you're away from everyone else. They might ask questions."

"Fuck everyone else. I feel so alone here, right now."

"You're wrong. You have Ambrose. You made it through this with him, you can make it through anything. And soon enough, I'll be back, and maybe you'll have me, too."

"I'd like that," Roman admitted.

A long, lingering quiet. Roman listened to Seth breathe. He was glad the guy was okay.

"Good night, Roman."

"'Night, Seth."

After the call ended, Roman saved the number in his phone again. Seth Rollins was a contact once more in his phone.

Roman kind of missed him.

Of all the people to make him smile again, it had been Seth freakin' Rollins.

 _Life's weird_.


End file.
